He Was Always A Dramatic Boy
by PerfectMisfit
Summary: /"I consider people worth screwing, not genders, darling," Sebastian whispers, leaning in so that his face was mere inches away from Santana's. "and you did just fine."/  Sebtana. Oneshot.


**I do not own Glee.**

**Title: **He Was Always A Dramatic Boy

**Pairings: **Sebtana

**Word Count: **1,717

**Rating: **T (for language and sexual themes).

**A/N: **I've never written for Glee before (and I'm not using that as an excuse) and I've wanted to write for it for a long, long time. I hope I kept both Santan and Sebastian in character. Although I think these two have _unparallelable _sexual chemistry, I really don't the pairing that much at all. I really, _really_ want Sebofsky to happen (and I'm thinking of starting a Sebofsky fic too). I think this is kind of rushed - definitely not my best work. But this is really just a small incident that I kind of pictured in my head. Well, reviews and concrit would be nice :).

. . .

After their cover of _Smooth Criminal _she's the only thing he thinks about for a while. The way her hair curls around her tanned face, the way she smirks at him, taunting him to smirk back. The way she shoots snarky little remarks at him, tempting him to snap back. He doesn't care—for Christ's sake, he's _Sebastian Smythe. _If he cared about someone—let alone that McKinley bitch—hell would freeze over.

But he does think about her—sort of. It's only for fleeting moments—a second in history, a minute in geography. Whenever he can—just whenever he can, he likes to think of her brown eyes, smirking cockily like his own, green ones. And after a moment she's gone; like she never existed in his mind and he's glad because he has much, much better things to do than pine over some McKinley idiot.

But she returns.

She always does, she always will.

Like right now—he's sitting in _Scandals, _a beer nestled in his hands. The music is terrible, but on the plus side, it's a Saturday and the good crowd are in. There are pathetic people who couldn't find themselves someone to hold a one night stand with on Friday and are back for a second try (Sebastian laughs at them; if they couldn't do it one time, they wouldn't be able to do it the second time either). And the best crowd always come in on Saturday—enough time to sleep off the resulting hangover and no need to worry about turning up drunk or half-awake at work.

And, around the weekend, Sebastian can take his catches back home and not worry about telling them he's underage or a minor. He can tell them he's eighteen and in college and everyone he brings home are too drunk to notice that he doesn't look a day over seventeen. His routine is fuck 'em, sweep 'em off their feet and then ditch them when they wake up.

If they're around when he wakes up—normally, they're off before he's awake.

The music here is terrible—it's some stupid, Katy Perry song and it's sickening how most of the guys in here are dancing to it. Firework? Good song, but boring and much, much too upbeat for his taste. He takes a swig of his beer and steps off the bar stool, feeling confidence rush through him all at once. He walks over to a boy—a few years older to him maybe, but a few inches shorter and socially dysfunctional in ways that make Sebastian shudder.

"What're you drinking?" He asks suavely, tilting his head ever so slightly to the left.

"Shi-Shirley tem-temple. . ."

"Why don't you let me buy you a beer?" Sebastian asks and before the boy—the man, actually—can respond, the motions to the bartender for a beer. And before it arrives, said boy detaches himself from Sebastian and waddles away. An outright rejection, from someone incapable of forcing out two words? Sebastian is horrified (_Well it was his loss anyway_). He rolls his eyes, deciding there really isn't anyone worth his time in the bar that night and makes his way out. He stumbles and squeezes his way between people and finally finds himself out of the crowded bar. The lights are beginning to assault his eyes, anyway. Plus the smoke in the bar was kind of making him dizzy. The second he steps out of _Scandals _fresh air graces him. He staggers forward, realising that he's probably a little drunk now—he makes his way over to his car and finds himself. . .

. . .face-to-face with McKinley halfwit Santana Lopez.

"Well, if it isn't—" she sneers at him and takes a step closer, her face radiating her vexation.

"This is a _gay _bar, love." Sebastian points out snidely, cutting her off. "So, unless you've grown a dick and are able to mysteriously produce sperm, I don't think you belong here."

"Yeah? Yeah, well I have a score to settle with you, Andy McCarthy and I'm not going to leave until I do it." She's about a head shorter than him and still intimidating in a funny way—to anyone else, it might have been a reason to scram and never look at so much as Santana Lopez's shadow, but he's _Sebastian Smythe _and he has a face to uphold. A _girl _wasn't going to freak him out.

"Are you _challenging_ me?"

"And if I am—"She stops mid-way.

There's something between the two of them that she can't put her finger on—something heavy and tense, but begging to be broken down and taken apart. Something that Santana frowns at—she's slept with more guys than she can count with her fingers and toes, but there's something undeniably d_ifferent _about Sebastian. He's an asshole, a jerk, someone Santana would avoid like the plague, but can't help but keep being drawn to him. He's so irritating, so preppy with a face that screams 'rich, spoilt, brat' but he doesn't seem in the least bit _gay _to _her_. She compares him to Kurt and the two boys are so different that they could belong to two different species.

She doesn't know what happens for a moment. She stares into his _impossibly _green eyes and she's lost, she's wordless and she's _actually _tongue tied—which is unlike her usual self. There's this tension—this urge—hanging between them and Santana wants to rip it apart, just so she can feel relieved once again. And kick this _dimwit's _ass like she said she would.

But there's more—more that Santana can't explain. More that Sebastian can't explain. In a fit of impatience—or maybe it's lust—the two of them forget about boundaries or manners or even introductions (or re-introductions). The distance between them closes in a split second—his lips come crashing down against hers, his arms encircle her thin body, her frame is pressed against his chest and they walk clumsily, both of them in a hurry, over to where his car is parked. Sebastian reaches back and manages to open the door to the backseat of his car, and without further ado, the two of them fall back on the car seat—Santana on top of Sebastian—and proceed to perform the most primal, _basic _and natural act possible for human beings.

Hands more experienced than either of them would care to admit begin to fumble with buttons and zippers. In a moment _his_ clothes come off, _her_ clothes come off and _their_ clothes lie in a mixed pile in the driver and passenger seats in front of them. Their bodies connect with passion and need and desire . . . and neither of them w_ants _to _stop._

This is not right—this _can't_ be right, but it feels incredible. It feels like there's nowhere else they should be right now. . .

The night fades, eventually and the two of them drift off, lying pressed against each other, stark naked in a car seat in what can only be defined as the most uncomfortable position a human being can twist themselves into. The windows are open; the two of them are sleeping in a car and the velvet-upholstered seats make the car all the more hot, but the moment—or rather, the night—is just fine.

And then night becomes day and Santana is the first to wake up, shocked and more embarrassed than shocked that she fell victim to Sebastian's charm. And she wasn't even under the influence of alcohol. And she screwed him in a _car. _Man—

"Whoa, feisty, aren't we, darling?" Sebastian laughs as Santana attempt to scramble off him.

"Where are my clothes?" The Latina demands, agitation crawling into her voice.

"You seemed so glad to get rid of them yesterday," Sebastian grins at her, his hands finding their way around hers. "They're over there," he gestures to where they lay with his eyes. Santana moves away, incredibly humiliated and desperate to get away from Sebastian. Anywhere without him would be amazing.

"So, what did you _really _you come here for?" Sebastian asks lazily, awkwardly throwing his shirt over his shoulder even though he was in a prone position. "If it was anyone else, I'd think it was just to sample my awesomeness," he made a crude motion of his hands to his crotch. "But not you." (_He didn't miss Santana's "how is there enough space for your ego in the northern hemisphere?")_

"Tell me why you fucked me when you're clearly not interested in girls, and maybe I'll tell you." Comes the sharp reply.

"I consider people worth fucking, not genders, darling," Sebastian whispers, leaning in so that his face was mere inches away from Santana's. "and you did just fine."

Santana doesn't grace him with an answer. She pulls on her clothes, hastily buttoning up her shirt and manages to crawl out of the car. She gives him a quick goodbye. Or something that sounds like a "I hope to God I never see you again". He dresses himself and climbs into the driver's seat, mostly satisfied—because he had the time of his life the night before—but slightly disappointed. He doesn't do relationships and from what he's heard, she's with some blonde named Brittany. But he wants Santana. . .

. . .sort of. Even if it's just for sex—sex is meaningless, anyway. It's just hands and bodies colliding with each other. It's fun. There's nothing more to it than that.

And as he think about it, he realises—that's all he and Santana will ever be. Random, _meaningless _sex.


End file.
